


Sonata Pathétique

by R_Quarion



Series: The Catalogue of Frowns [1]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Positivity, Confused Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff, Gabriel is an ass, Idiots in Love, It's 2am and Im Proud of My Pencil Joke, M/M, Neck Kissing, Protective Crowley, Rule Breaking, Slow Dancing, These Two Own Me, Wholesome Crowley, god save my soul
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 20:46:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19449232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Quarion/pseuds/R_Quarion
Summary: Aziraphale thinks about what Gabriel said maybe a bit too much... Crowley decides to help in a way that Aziraphale does not expect...How many angels can dance on the head of a pin...?





	Sonata Pathétique

“Do you think I could… miracle myself to be fit?”  
Aziraphale was quite _ clearly  _ asking Crowley. Well, he had to be. For the bookshop, or at least the back of the bookshop, was absent of any other being. Human or otherwise. But the way the words had softly left the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue only the drift in the draft of the old shop and swiftly dissipate, suggested that maybe he was just thinking. Aloud. Aziraphale did that from time to time. Although usually it was about something Crowley would have a response to. This time it made little, if any, sense.   


“Pardon?” Crowley watched the surface layer of his red wine wash against the sides of the glass as he moved his hand slowly around. He had to admit it was difficult to see the liquid in the light and with his glasses on. It manifested itself to look more like ink, if anything. Black ink darker then the void. Once it passed his lips, he was certain it was not.    
“Well as I’m sure you’re aware, fitness is a--”   
“An awfully human concept, yes? You’re an angel. You don’t  _ need _ to be fit.” His brow was furrowed into a frown of sorts. The confused kind of frown. The frown given when someone asks something as ludicrous as:  _ if the #2 pencil is the most popular, why’s it still #2?  _ Crowley’s frown was that kind of frown. “Why would you even consider such a thing?”   
Aziraphale’s eyes moved from Crowley to the glass in his own hand. Avoidance. Clear as day. Well, as clear as a summer's day. Days of winter were a lot less clear and a lot colder. Aziraphale didn’t quite like the cold. Nearly as much as he didn’t quite like the feeling that hung heavy in his chest when he tried to find the words to answer.   
“Oh, it was just something Gabriel said.” Aziraphale had a chipper tone. He made sure Crowley could hear it.    
“Mmm he says a lot however.” Crowley’s voice demanded context. Aziraphale took a quick breath. Context was always complex. Circumstantial, in the past, not exact.   
“He called me a- uh- a ‘lean, mean fighting machine’.” Aziraphale smiled the kind of smile you put on when you walk past a stranger on a footpath. Lips pressed together. Awkwardly.   
“And…?”   
“It’s nothing- really--”   
“ _ Angel. Tell me _ .” Gods damn Crowley when he used that tone. Aziraphale answered without further hesitation.   
“He told me to ‘lose the gut’. And so I-”  
“He _ what _ ?!” Crowley’s frown was no longer the kind of frown that was related to #2 pencils. No this frown was more along the lines of seeing your Bentley exploded on the day of Armageddon. So.  _ Not exactly happy. There had been better days. _ __  
“I- well- it’s-- he---” Aziraphale could  _ feel  _ the anger radiating from the demon across from him.   
“He is an  _ asshole _ is what he is.” Crowley had stood up, some wine spilling over the rim of the glass and onto his shirt. Thankfully it was a black shirt. Not as noticeable. “It’s things like this that make we wish just maybe we had let the war happen. Maybe his head would be on a pike. I’ve never been into homeware but wouldn’t that make just the  __ nicest  mantle piece.” Syllables of hisses and words of pure acid.   
“Do… do demons use early medieval English traditions in battle?” Aziraphale asked innocently before going quiet until he found his words, “you really are quite angry about this… Crowley it’s nothing, really-”

“Well  _ actually,  _ angel. It isn’t nothing. It’s everything. Considering who it’s about.” The words were out of Crowley’s mouth before he could stop them. They had been quick and vicious. By Satan had Crowley seen the  _ exact  _ moment in which Aziraphale really heard the words. A few blinks of his eyes. Bluer than the skies of heaven, they were. Or Crowley assumed so. His last visit to the great above had him preoccupied with fire. He was much too busy being caught ablaze to truly notice the hue of the sky. Cerulean, was it? Or aquamarine...? Either way Aziraphale  _ blinked  _ in utter disbelief.    
“What does that mean, Crowley..?” He sounded timid. Confused. If Crowley were to ramble there was a chance that the confusion would only worsen. They same way that moving in quicksand makes you sink quicker. Only in this one particular scenario the person stuck in the quicksand was a demon and the quicksand was the inevitable spilling of emotions that had been repressed for many millennia.   


It wasn’t until Crowley heard some familiar notes that he knew how to handle the situation. Or, he hoped he knew. Beethoven was a favourite of Aziraphale’s musical composers. So, Crowley put down his dripping wine glass and offered out his hand.   
“Crowley… you’re confusing me, dear.” eyes lingering on the tips of Crowley’s outstretched hand.   
“Just… take my hand.” a brief moment of hesitation passed before Aziraphale took his Crowley’s hand softly. Crowley slowly led the angel to the middle of the room and once they were standing center to all of the flickering candles, Crowley pulled him closer.   
“Crowley…” Aziraphale’s voice was a hushed whisper, eyes looking up to the demon’s with the utmost confusion. Crowley didn’t answer in words. No, instead, his hands moved softly down Aziraphale’s waist to rest lightly on his hips.    
“Dance with me, angel. I know you like this one.”   
Of course it did take Aziraphale a few seconds to process  _ any  _ of it. Namely just how they got here. But he found his arms moving to the demon’s shoulders. As he started moving back and forward to the sound of the piano, Aziraphale found himself calm somewhat. Eventually moving in rhythm with him. Slowly.   
“Piano Sonata…” Aziraphale commented quietly,    
“Op. 13.” Crowley smirked.    
“No. 8 in C minor.” Aziraphale was looking up into the lenses of Crowley’s glasses. He moved his hand to take the glasses off and discard them onto the sofa behind them.   


“Mind explaining why your outburst has lead to a sudden interest in slow dancing? Especially considering angels don’t dance.” Aziraphale murmured as he found himself lost in Crowley’s eyes. Hypnotic, they were. A mix of the moons Callisto and Titan. Titan for its yellow colours. Callisto for its beauty. The candles of the room only deepened those traits. Flame of orange flickering in the draft, casting light from wall to wall.    
“There is my point  _ exactly _ .” God save Aziraphale’s oblivious soul, “ _ you are no ordinary angel.” _   
“I’m not sure how that is relevant---”   
“How is it not?” Crowley took a second. He moved his hands to gently knead at the angles hips. Aziraphale hummed unconsciously in response. “That blasted angel thinks he can judge you? Well, I won’t let the bastard. Aziraphale, my angel, I see perfection where you see flaw.”   
“There’s no such thing.” Aziraphale had ducked his head to hide the burning rose colour that had washed over his cheeks.    
“Oh but there is…” Crowley leant forward somewhat, to an angle where he could place a kiss on Aziraphale’s neck. Soft, warm, slow. The demon had to stop himself from using his teeth once he heard the little noise the angel had made. The smallest gasp and unconscious movement that put him just a little closer. Crowley moved a little further down. Then further down from there. Lips trailing Aziraphale’s skin. The angel had moved to expose his neck a little more, eyes closed and humming at every kiss.   
“You prefer me to--”   
“Look exactly as you do… be exactly who you are...” Aziraphale didn’t even finish the sentence before Crowley did it for him. His hands slowly undoing the top few buttons of his shirt, just to prove his point. “Do you understand, my angel?”   
“Mmmm I think so…” Aziraphale flickered his eyes open as Crowley pressed their foreheads together,    
“Do you understand that you are  _ different _ . You’re  _ no  _ machine, you can dance- be it with one and a half left feet-, and you enjoy your crepes.  _ Somehow _ , I’ve found the perfect angel. Heaven only had one. And he’s here...”   


The demon inside Crowley had been screaming this whole time to slam the angel into the closest wall and do all this physical praise a little more directly.  _ Soft _ wasn’t Crowley's forte. But bending the rules was. Demon’s were designed to tempt. And so Crowley had bent that rule. If he were to say, tempt Aziraphale into having more self confidence then, well, job well done. Maybe he could bend the rules just a little further. Only a few centimeters further, in fact. With all consideration, Crowley moved his hands to Aziraphale’s face. Slender fingers cupping Aziraphale’s jaw as he moved to kiss the angel directly.  _ Softly _ .

Aziraphale let out a soft little moan of Crowley’s name. It was barely audible but it was there.   
“Why are you saying all this...” Was the follow up between soft exchanges of kisses.   
“Because-- as much as- I hate to admit it--- maybe there’s just a small part of me--- that is--  _ nice _ .” He had to grit his teeth to say it. Amongst the flickering golden lights of the candles, Crowley felt Aziraphale smile against his lips. Between mumbled breaths Aziraphale whispered back,   
_ “Yes, I believe you certainly are  my love _ …”

**Author's Note:**

> oKay but help I love them.


End file.
